This
summer, if I remember well, I had a garden. Piece of paradise in the middle of
nowhere, it was filled with flowers, with fragrances and with singing birds. Now,
these dried flowers are the only remains of these fabulous days. I like them,
but certainly not as much as I loved the ones in the garden. For some, they are
only bones and skulls, but far more than a “Memento Mori”, they repeat
constantly to my ears: “Courage, Christmas is over, days are going to get
longer now, spring will be here in a few weeks and we’ll be growing back soon
in your garden…”
What a
weirdo the Marquise is: she’s now “hearing dried flower’s language”! Joan of Arc
was burned for less!
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